


The Greatest Story Never Told

by DinerGuy



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suspense, Team, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/pseuds/DinerGuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>According to the news, someone very closely resembling a certain pseudo psychic is a hero. So why can't Shawn remember any of the events of the previous day? And why is he on the run from the police?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I might have started this idea a while back, when the gang was all still in Santa Barbara. (So don’t argue; just go with it.) In other news, in case you didn’t know or forgot none of Psych belongs to me. Which means this is all just for fun, no copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made. (Which is a bummer because I have no job right now and could really use the income.)
> 
> Not betaed, so all mistakes are mine.

**(Present)**

He crouches in the shadows, peering from the alley with an expression of careful fear written on his face. The streetlights illuminate most of the road, but there are patches that the light doesn’t quite reach - and those patches concern him most. Although he strains his eyes, he cannot see into the darkness, leaving him uncertain if anything is lurking there. His eyes dart back and forth as he tries anyway, and he holds his breath, trying to still his ragged breathing so he can listen. Nothing gives itself away, and after counting off five minutes, he swallows and makes his decision.

Darting from the shelter of the alley, he makes sure to hug the shadows. He makes his way down the street as quickly as he can manage. For his speed, however, there is also caution in his movements; he swivels his head back and forth, taking in his surroundings as he goes. Something clangs against the pavement off to his right, and he jumps as the sound reverberates down the empty street. When no sounds follow it, his shoulders relax slightly, but his sneakered feet do not slow until he reaches the end of the street.

He peers around the corner to check first one way, then another. A moment later, seemingly satisfied, he takes the right turn and melts into the darkness, the muffled _slap_ of rubber soles against asphalt fading into the distance.

* * *

**(Approximately nine hours earlier)**

_Crunch, crunch._

_Crrrrrkle._

_Crunch, crunch._

Head detective Carlton Lassiter’s head snapped up from his computer screen. Santa Barbara’s most annoying citizen grinned around a mouthful of Funyuns, crinkling the bag as he reached for another.

“Spencer, do you have nothing better to do?”

“Umm, let me think about that…” Spencer cocked his head to the side, feigning deep thought, then he shrugged. “Nope!”

Burying his face in his hands for a brief moment, Lassiter took a deep breath and reminded himself that his partner would not be happy if she came back from lunch to find Spencer in a cell. “Spencer,” he said slowly, dropping his hands and narrowing his eyes, “you have precisely one minute to vacate my immediate premises.”

“Aw, Lassie, you don’t mean that. Funyun?” Spencer held the bag out in what he must have meant as a gesture of goodwill. Well, that or he was purposely trying to be as annoying as possible. Lassiter wouldn’t put it past the man.

Lassiter just glared at him. “Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.”

It wasn’t until Lassiter hit “fifty” that Spencer seemed to take him seriously. He scrambled up from the chair and retreated towards the station’s front doors.

* * *

  **(Present)**

“He left his stupid Funyuns on the chair,” Lassiter grumbles. He crosses his arms and frowns at the recollection.

From her seat beside his bed, O’Hara hides a smile. He’s sure she would tell him it is at his grumpy expression, but he doesn’t think he’s being ridiculous by any means. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll make sure they’re gone before you get back to work.”

“Good,” he sniffs. “And find out from that doctor when he’s going to let me go. I barely have a scratch; keeping me here for… ‘observation,’ or whatever term they decided to make up, is absolutely ridiculous.”

“You were unconscious when they brought you in, Carlton,” his partner objects, adopting a maternal tone as she raises an eyebrow at him. “You have staples in your head for crying out loud!”

“It’s nothing.”

O’Hara huffs a sigh and crosses her own arms, but before she can retort, there is a knock at the door. A moment later, Guster sticks his head in the room. The man looks incredibly worried, a look that O’Hara catches immediately.

“Gus? What’s wrong?” O’Hara is halfway out of her chair before she finishes the question.

Guster’s eyes are wide. “Shawn’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Lassiter snaps at the young man. Not only is Guster interrupting his debriefing with his partner, the interruption is about Spencer, of all things. Can’t there be just one night where the subject of the childish consultant doesn’t come up?

Guster’s eyes widen even more as he looks between the two detectives. “I mean he’s gone! I came back from grabbing coffee, and his bed was empty. Henry’s still at the house where you sent him to shower,” he directs that particular statement at O’Hara, “and I was in the cafeteria, so there was no one else in the room. I… I figured I could leave him,” he stammers, “for just a few minutes. He was still asleep, so I didn’t think that would hurt.”

“Gus, it’s not your fault,” O’Hara says firmly, putting a hand on his arm before pushing the door further open to pass him. “Let’s go back to the room. Maybe he just got confused and is nearby.” She sounds as if she is trying to convince herself as much as she is Guster.

“Where would Spencer even have gone?” Lassiter demands, annoyed that even a hospital visit isn’t enough to keep Spencer out of trouble. He starts to push himself out of the bed, determined to get to the bottom of whatever the confusion is. Then the room spins around him, and he’s forced to stop his upward motion, putting a hand to his head and leaning back in an attempt to bring things into focus again.

When the world rights itself, O’Hara is beside him, a worried look on her face. One hand is on his arm, the other resting against his forehead. Guster is nowhere to be seen, but the quick appearance of a nurse speaks to where he may have gone.

The nurse looks as pleased as O’Hara. “Detective Lassiter, please lie still,” she says as she fiddles with one of the machines beside his bed. She then turns her attention to him and shakes her head slowly. “This is why the doctor wants to keep you here overnight. You definitely have a concussion.” She’s doing other medical-related things, checking his vitals, and Lassiter concedes to himself that she’s right - if only because he can’t physically assist O’Hara with the search for Spencer. And as much as he hates to admit it, he knows he has to give in for the greater good. Whatever good locating Spencer actually is.

“Like I said,” he waves a hand in O’Hara’s direction, “he probably just wandered off somewhere.” Or did she actually say it? “I won’t be surprised if you find him on a couch in a visitor’s corner of this place.”

O’Hara looks slightly amused under the obvious worry she’s carrying for Spencer. “We’ll keep that in mind.” She turns for the door, grabbing Guster’s arm on her way out. “Come on, Gus. Let’s go find Shawn.”

Then whatever the nurse had injected into his IV begins to take over, and Lassiter settles back against his pillow and lets his eyes drift shut.

* * *

  **(Approximately seven hours and fifty-two minutes earlier)**

Lassiter swung the car door shut and started the engine. He had finally finished his report once Spencer had left him alone, and now that his paperwork was done, he was ready to listen to his grumbling stomach. Normally he and O’Hara grabbed something to eat together, but she’d had a dentist appointment, so he was on his own.

Less than ten minutes later, he pulled up to his favorite sandwich shop. It was past the lunch rush, so he hoped there would be few to no other patrons so that his errand would be quick. He strode inside, noting with pleasure that there was no one in line… then he groaned in annoyance as a man jumped up from the table to his left.

“Lassie!” Spencer was much too excited to see him. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Spencer,” Lassiter grit out with as much patience as he could muster, “my plans for the afternoon do not include baby-sitting you. Follow me anywhere else and I won’t think twice about handcuffing you and dumping you in my trunk.”

“Oh so harsh,” Spencer _tsk_ ed. “But don’t you remember? I’m the kid whose dad taught him to escape from the trunk of a car.”

“Don’t worry. When I get through with you, you won’t,” Lassiter snapped.

Then Spencer frowned as Lassiter’s previous statement registered. “Wait… ‘follow’ you? I was here first!”

“Only because you…” Lassiter trailed off. He wasn’t about to admit that Spencer knew it was his current favorite lunch spot. Even though the man did, Lassiter was not about to give him the pleasure of admitting it. Spencer would be only too glad to rub the acknowledgement in his face. Then he realized that Spencer was now staring at something over his shoulder with a look of what could have been called concern. Lassiter turned to follow his gaze, then his eyes narrowed as he took in the man who had just entered the restaurant.

He was mid- to late-twenties, Caucasian, dark-haired. To anyone else, he looked like a construction worker on lunch break, but Lassiter’s trained eye caught the bulge under the man’s shirt and his nervous stature. The detective was sure Spencer had seen it as well; Lassiter would never admit it aloud, but Spencer had a knack for observation. He turned back to Spencer and leaned forward. “Call for backup,” he hissed, pushing the younger man towards the restrooms at the rear of the store. “And stay out of sight.” To his credit, Spencer did as he was told. Lassiter saw him mashing at the screen of his smartphone as he retreated. With any further luck, Spencer would stay out of sight until the situation was under control… although Lassiter wasn’t about to bet any amount of money on that.

Lassiter didn’t wait for the door to swing shut behind Spencer before turning his attention back to the newcomer, who was proceeding towards the counter. He headed for the line as well; he did need to order his food, after all. There was the chance this newcomer was only there for food and would soon be gone without any trouble.

However, that hope was dashed less than a moment later when the man reached down and produced a pistol from his waistband. “Nobody move!” he bellowed.

* * *

  **(Present)**

He’d found an empty warehouse in which to pass the rest of the night. It wasn’t the most luxurious of accommodations, but it was out of the elements and there was only a slim chance of something getting at him while he slept. Sure, the place probably hadn’t seen life for several years, and it could use a good spring cleaning, but it was better than nothing. As soon as he was inside, the exhaustion and pain that he had been ignoring for the better part of the night had overtaken him, and he’d barely made it to a wall before he collapsed against it. He’d slid down to the ground, already drifting off into a netherworld of shadows and dreams.

Patches of light flash through his dreams, accompanied by blurred images that he can’t quite grasp. They float just out of reach, taunting him with their almost-but-not-quite clarity.

_Dozens of faces, their exact features just out of reach, encircle him as they whirl past, ebbing and fading, like the tide on the beach. He turns around and around to try to focus, but they just swirl faster._

_He reaches out for a hand… an arm… anything to anchor him to these people._

_And then the fear hits._

_There is something cold and terrifying, made even more so by the fact that he knows it is there but can’t identify it. It creeps up the back of his neck, prickling the hairs and sinking his stomach in icy knots._

_Then something dark and heavy drops into his hands. He can’t make it out, but something in his gut tells him it’s a gun._

_There are screams. Terrified screams that seem to come from all around him._

_He drops the object in his hands, hearing a deafening echo as he does. He puts his hands to his ears, wincing at the pain that is now blossoming in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, bending over and pressing his hands harder in an attempt to control the pain._

_It subsides just enough for him to straighten and look around, and then he notices the utter quiet._

_All of the faces, the screaming, the swirling… it is all gone. It’s gone, and all that is left is a cold, dark, empty space._

And then he realizes his eyes are open, and he’s blinking into the darkness, trying to make out something. It is still cold, however. And not just cold. Freezing. His fingers are already going numb. He feels dampness against his legs and back. And somewhere nearby, there is an oddly metallic trickling sound. It’s too dark to see from where it’s coming, but it’s there somewhere.

Whenever his surroundings lighten up, he’ll be able to see what’s around him. For now, he tucks his hands into his armpits for warmth and pulls his legs up tightly against his chest, ignoring the shooting pain in his side in favor of preserving body heat.

* * *

  **(Approximately seven hours and thirty-nine minutes earlier)**

Lassiter quickly glanced around the restaurant, taking in the rest of the room. The cashier seemed to be frozen in indecision, poised between the register and the door to the kitchen. If he had to guess, Lassiter would say the kitchen staff were already gone out the back door. He noticed all of this in a matter of seconds, then made his move.

“SBPD!” He drew his own weapon in one quick motion, aiming at the gunman’s head to back up his command. “Put your weapon down now!”

The man whirled to point his gun in Lassiter’s direction. His eyes darted back and forth, and he tightened his grip on the pistol as he bit his lip nervously. “Why don’t you put yours down? Before someone gets hurt?”

It didn’t make the detective feel any better to see that the man’s finger was resting on the trigger of the gun rather than outside of it. _Idiots these days and their movies,_ he thought. _That’s no way to hold a gun. One twitch of a finger and that weapon goes off._

But rather than voice his concern over the man’s gun control, Lassiter just raised an eyebrow. “It’s not hard to see how this is going to end up going down. Either I shoot you now, or you keep going with this standoff, and you get shot when my backup arrives.”

“Or I just shoot you, take my money, and get out before your backup gets here.” A moment later, the man’s attention drifted to something behind Lassiter, although his focus snapped back when the detective started to move forward. “Stay there!”

Lassiter was briefly tempted to look back to see if he should be worried about what had distracted the gunman, but no sooner had the thought occurred to him than he heard the one voice he most definitely did not want to hear at that moment.

“I’d do what he said, dude.” Spencer sounded like he was chewing on something - no surprise - as his footsteps sounded behind Lassiter. “He’s usually serious about shooting people, especially when he’s grumpy because someone interrupted his lunch.”

With a heavy sigh, Lassiter tightened his jaw in frustration. “Spencer,” he said, still keeping his full attention focused on the gun being aimed at him, “I thought I told you to stay out of sight.”

“Oh… Oh, you meant completely?” Spencer asked innocently. “I thought you just meant while I was on the phone. Jules says ‘hi,’ by the way.”

Whatever Lassiter was about to say in response was interrupted by the cashier finally making up his mind to run for it. The young man’s motion and the subsequent banging of the kitchen door were quick, but because they occurred almost out of his peripheral vision, they were enough to grab Lassiter’s attention. It was a brief second, one which also caused the would-be robber to turn his head towards the quick movement. The man’s gun remained aimed in the detective’s direction, however, and Lassiter’s greatest fears were realized just then, as the would-be robber’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The _bang_ of the gunshot mixed with Spencer’s shout of “Lassie!” and then there was a forceful impact against his spine that drove him forwards and sent him skidding across the shiny linoleum. Lassiter had a brief moment to notice he was moving in the wrong direction for getting shot from the front before his head impacted with something sharp and solid. A bright, white light took up his vision as pain exploded in a burst inside his skull, then everything went dark.

* * *

  **(Present)**

When his eyes open again, it still isn’t light. He tries to go back to sleep, back into a world where there isn’t any pain, where the discomfort fades away as dreams take over. Unfortunately, even though he desperately wishes for it, it doesn’t come. He’s not sure how long he spends trying to fall asleep before he gives up, but it seems like forever.

Then when he finally concedes defeat in that area, the temptation to give into the pain is right there, pulling at him insistently. It’s in his side as well as his head, throbbing and making everything feel like it’s on fire. The amount of sheer… _hurt_ is enough to cloud the edges of his vision. All he wants to do is to just lie down and give up.

But something in his mind is telling him to focus past the pain. He’s not sure where it comes from, but the little voice is there. It’s gruff and stern, and it sounds oddly disgruntled with his weakness. He frowns. There isn’t much around to inspire other thoughts, unless he counts the utterly bone-chilling cold seeping through his skin, but somehow he doubts that is the best option for distracting himself.

_Positive thoughts,_ he tells himself. _Positive thoughts._

He squints and looks at the wall opposite him. There is one single window high up in the corrugated metal surface, and for as much as he wishes that he could see just a little bit of daylight, just a hint of hope and warmth. Regardless of what he wants, however, it stays stubbornly dark. It’s as if the world itself is mocking his pain… and he realizes he can’t remember its start. He can’t remember where he acquired the source of the pain either in his head or his side, and that bothers him. It would be one thing to have a painful reminder of… well of whatever event occurred to cause the pain. But he can’t remember anything at all.

Concentrating only serves to increase the pounding in his head, and before he realizes it, the darkness overtakes him once again.

* * *

  **(Approximately seven hours earlier)**

Lassiter awoke with a start. He lay still for a moment, trying to place where he was and how he had gotten there. He could have sworn he had just been… And then he sat up with a start as he remembered the events leading up to his losing consciousness.

Or rather, he attempted to do so. He had every intention of leaping to his feet and finding the man who had held up the sandwich shop. Instead, everything around him tilted crazily to one side before his head was six inches off the ground. He lifted his hands to his head to massage away the pain, but he felt something catch on his right hand. His left went to it in confusion, and he looked down to find an IV line fading in and out of focus. It looked as if he had two, as well as two right hands.

Then someone’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back down onto the soft surface beneath him. “Detective, you need to lie back,” the voice that must belong to the hands said firmly. Lassiter looked up to the hazy face of a young EMT. The man didn’t look like he was leaving any room for argument. “You’ve had a pretty good whack to your head there; we need to get you to the hospital to get checked out.”

“I… don’t need a hospital.” Lassiter was slightly embarrassed at the slurring of his words, but he felt helpless to control them. “I’m just… just fine.”

“Right,” the EMT replied. He didn’t sound like he believed Lassiter. “Let’s just make sure, though, shall we?”

Then the surface Lassiter was on started moving, and he belatedly realized he was on a stretcher. Which made complete sense, come to think of it. A moment later, he realized something else, and he blinked. “Where Spencer?” he demanded.

“Spencer?” the EMT asked from beside him.

Unimpressed with the delay in information, Lassiter nodded - and then immediately regretted the action, as it made his head spin and his vision spotty. “Spencer!” he growled.

A new arrival entered his field of vision, and Lassiter had to blink a few times to focus on the person’s face. When he realized it was O’Hara, he raised a shaky hand to point in her direction. “O’Hara! What… where… Spencer?” His words weren’t cooperating. This was certainly embarrassing.

“Shawn’s in the other ambulance,” she told him. Her voice sounded as steady as his hand had been a moment before. “Do... you remember what happened in there, Carlton?”

He frowned. “That’s what I want to know.”

O’Hara sighed heavily. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Then the EMT stepped forward. “Your questions will have to wait, Detective. Sorry, but we need to get him to the hospital. That head wound needs attention.”

“Yes, of course,” O’Hara agreed. She patted Lassiter on the leg. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

And then there was an upward motion as the stretcher was lifted into the ambulance and the vehicle’s doors swung closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all... I feel like a horrible person. lol I was doing so well on the writing thing, and I had half of the second chapter written, so I decided to post the first chapter of this story... and then my muse abandoned me. *sigh* It wants to blame NaNoWriMo and tell me it has a hangover from all of the words it had to compose last month, but I don't know if that's just its excuse or if that really is what happened. Either way, I didn't get this done until today, and I sincerely apologize for the delay!
> 
> Thanks for the feedback so far; I hope you enjoy the conclusion!
> 
> And yes, I know this is a bit different of a setup than my fics normally have. I wanted to try something new - which sorta happened without my planning it - so you may notice there are a few vague bits and some of it jumps around quite a lot. It's just kind of how the story came out, and I hope it worked for you readers. :)

 

**(Present)**

Juliet exits the hospital's security office, head high and shoulders straight with a determined focus on the task at hand. She can't stop to think of all of the ways this could turn bad, but she also has to account for all of the possibilities. That's just part of her job. She weighs all of the factors, draws conclusions, makes decisions. And normally, she just takes it all as it comes. Sure, there are hard aspects to the job, but that is to be expected. This… this is not. This is personal, and it makes things ten times harder than when it is not.

Flashing her badge and making important, legal-sounding threats regarding an escaped patient had allowed her access to the hospital's security footage. Between the different angles that the cameras were filming, she was able to ascertain that Shawn left of his own free will and that he had stumbled off looking very disoriented - and very scared.

She grits her teeth as she recalls that fear that had been so clear on his face on the recordings. If it hadn't been for that trigger-happy robber at the sandwich shop… Then she stops herself when she realizes she is starting to sound like her partner. She pushes her worry and anger at the man who had caused the problem to the side and pulls out her cell phone. She dials the station as she strides towards the exit where Gus is waiting.

Buzz answers on the second ring, and she barks out orders. Belatedly she realizes that she could be nicer about her commands, but it is her boyfriend who's missing, and she can apologize later. Right now, they just need to get moving on the case.

The hospital cameras had captured Shawn heading in an easterly direction, and he had been on foot. She smiles grimly to herself. As long as he hasn't stolen a car or managed to get a ride, they will be able to find him before the night is over.

As she steps out into the cold night air, she shivers and rubs her arms. It is an unseasonably cold night, and she is immediately grateful that the cameras showed Shawn had managed to find a change of clothes somewhere along the way between his bed and the exit. If he is running around the city in a hospital gown… well, he won't last long in that attire. That much is sure.

* * *

**(Approximately seven hours and forty minutes earlier)**

Shawn had done exactly what Lassie had instructed, and he grinned proudly to himself as he hung up the phone. Jules had seemed very worried when he told her what was going on, but he had tried to downplay it as much as possible while still communicating the urgency of the situation. Either way, he was sure she would be at the little restaurant before much longer, along with backup, and that was good enough for him.

He looked around the men's room and shrugged to himself. If Lassie had his way, this was where Shawn would stay until Jules and the backup did arrive. It was out of the way and safe, which did have its perks. However, Shawn couldn't possibly leave the head detective out there alone. Who knew what could go down in the next few minutes? It was definitely best if he went back and tried to help out however he could. Maybe Lassie would need someone to hold the gun while he handcuffed the bad guy.

Shawn fired off a quick text before tucking his iPhone into his pocket and pushing through the door back into the restaurant. Gus was never going to believe what was going on.

* * *

**(Present)**

A distant clanging noise pulls him from the deep sleep he had finally managed to find. His head jerks upright, and he immediately winces at the pain. There is both the as-yet-unidentifiable injury that has caused him discomfort - and that's putting it gently - throughout the night, but there is also the sharp pain of a crick in his neck due to his falling asleep while sitting propped against a wall. At some point after having fallen asleep, he's straightened out from his fetal position, which is probably why he's so cold now.

Come to think of it, he realizes, there is an ache deep in his bones, which he assumes he can blame on the damp and ice-cold fabric of his pants. Something in the back corner of his brain tells him this is strange. He puts a hand down to brace against the ground, knowing he cannot stand quite on his own, but immediately yanks it back in surprise. He looks down and, once his vision focuses, he sees he is seated in over three inches of water - which he knows was not there when he sat down… however long ago it was. It's still dark outside, so he has no idea how much time has passed.

He can't help but giggle at that. Who would sit down in a puddle of water on purpose anyway? That would just be silly, he decides.

The clanging noise sounds again, this time much closer. He looks up in the direction from which it has come, an unexplainable fear coursing through his veins at the realization that someone or something is coming his way. Visions of terrible monsters fill his head, and prompt him to put both hands down and push to his feet, disregarding the pain and the water on the floor. The edges of his sleeves get soaked along the way, but he ignores that small discomfort in favor of standing. It's harder than he expected; his aching legs do not cooperate, and he has to put a hand on the wall to keep himself from toppling over.

He bites his lip as he leans heavily against the wall. He has to bend over slightly to relieve the pain in his side. One of the only good things that seems to have come from the cold is that the pain from the night before is numbed to a large extent. He mainly just has discomfort when standing upright pulls at whatever wound he has sustained. He looks down and his eyes widen as he takes in the bloom of red that has discolored the gray sweatshirt he had grabbed on his way out of the hospital. Out of curiosity, he pulls up the hem. There is a large rectangle of gauze covering the majority of his side; the bandage itself is completely soaked through, with only its edges and the medical tape holding it in place retaining any white at all. The rest of it is completely dark red, which explains the state of his shirt. A remarkable bruise envelopes the rest of his side, blooming out from underneath the bandage in a myriad of purple, blue, and black colors.

Then he hears the clanging again, only this time it sounds farther away. He tilts his head to listen closer and hears voices, and another pang of fear comes to the front of his mind. It is still unexplainable but it is there, and he gives into it without another thought.

* * *

**(Approximately seven hours and thirty-seven minutes earlier)**

Shawn stepped out of the restroom fully intending to head straight for the counter to help Lassie, but he was temporarily distracted by an abandoned table near the back of the restaurant. Whoever had been sitting there until a few moments before hadn't even touched their bag of Sun Chips! Shawn shrugged; no use letting those go to waste. He hadn't had a chance to really eat lunch anyway, not with all of the drama that had started unfolding in the restaurant.

A few more steps, and the standoff at the front of the restaurant came into view - and Shawn could tell things were going badly. Lassie and the bad guy were both aiming their guns at each other, the head detective looking both angry and annoyed and the would-be robber looking far from ready to give up. It didn't make Shawn feel any better to see that the man's finger was resting on the trigger of the gun rather than outside of it. His dad's words during their many training sessions over the years rang through Shawn's head, and he could just imagine what his dad would say if he was here.

Then Lassie spoke, and Shawn's attention was brought back to the present circumstances. "It's not hard to see how this is going to end up going down," the head detective growled. Either I shoot you now, or you keep going with this standoff, and you get shot when my backup arrives."

"Or I just shoot you, take my money, and get out before your backup gets here," was the as-yet-to-be-named bad guy's response.

Shawn stepped forward, but his movement caught the bad guy's attention. Lassie had apparently noticed the man's diversion of focus and started to move for the gun, prompting a "Stay there!" when the gunman noticed.

"I'd do what he said, dude," Shawn advised, popping another chip into his mouth. Since he had been spotted already, he strode up to join Lassie. Hopefully he could find some way to help. "He's usually serious about shooting people, especially when he's grumpy because someone interrupted his lunch."

Lassie sighed heavily. "Spencer," the head detective said, still keeping his full attention focused on the gun being aimed at him, "I thought I told you to stay out of sight."

"Oh… Oh, you meant completely?" Shawn blinked. "I thought you just meant while I was on the phone. Jules says 'hi,' by the way," he added. She hadn't exactly said that, but she had seemed worried about her partner, so Shawn figured the sentiment was still there.

In the few moments it took for their exchange, Shawn noticed the cashier's eyes darting for the door, and he could tell the teen was calculating how long it would take to get out. Shawn opened his mouth to distract the gunman long enough for the kid to make his escape when it became a moot point. The cashier seemed to make up his mind to run for it.

As the young man's sudden movement and subsequent banging of the kitchen door distracted the others, Shawn's mind was quickly processing the variables and possible outcomes. Noticing the would-be robber's finger tighten on the trigger, Shawn made his move.

He yelled a warning as he launched himself forward, managing to make contact with Lassie just as the bang of the gunshot rang out. He and the head detective were already on their way down, but it seemed he was not quite as fast as he would have liked. He felt a burn as something brushed against his side just before his head met the firm and unrelenting tile surface of the floor.

* * *

**(Present)**

Gus is looking at her expectantly as she climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door. Worry creases his face. "What did you find?" The look on his face speaks volumes about how worried he is for his friend.

She puts off business for just a moment to give him a small, sympathetic smile. "I'm worried about him too."

She tries not to think about the events leading up to their current situation… the call from Shawn earlier that afternoon, right when she had gotten back to the station… the rushing over to the sandwich shop… hearing a gunshot… They had apprehended the gunman as he made a break for it, but then they had stepped inside the shop and…

"Juliet?" Gus's voice breaks into her memories, and she's grateful. She does not want to relive the scene in the interior of the restaurant, nor the gut-wrenching feeling of seeing the others…

She shakes her head to clear it and takes a deep breath. "We've got units out looking for him now. You up for joining in?" She knows what his answer will be already, but she has to ask.

"Just point the way," he replies, his face steeling with determination.

Neither want to voice their concern for their friend. Nature playing a terrible trick on them by tonight being one of the most unusually cold nights anyone can remember, and they know their time for finding their friend is extremely limited.

As Gus stops at the light to turn out of the parking lot, Juliet's phone rings. She snatches it up as soon as the ringer begins to sound. When she stills, Gus glances over to see what is going on. Her face tells him it isn't the news they wanted to hear.

"What is it?" he dares to ask as he ignores the light that has just turned green. There is no one in line behind him, so he figures it's excusable given the circumstances.

Juliet hears his question but ignores it as she listens to whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying. Then she nods curtly and responds with a clipped, "We'll be right there." She ends the call and sinks back into her seat, then she looks over at Gus with a serious and worried look on her face. She pauses a moment, then takes a deep breath. "Security at a warehouse just reported someone having been inside. They had a pipe leak and when they went to check it out, they scared someone off." She caught his look and gave a half-shrug. "No one saw who it was, but there was blood mixed in the water and on the wall, so…" She trails off, almost afraid of what her words might mean.

"And you think it's Shawn?" Gus asks hopefully.

She nods. "It makes sense. And the warehouse is in the direction he was headed on the security footage. Let's head down there and see what we can find. He can't have gotten far."

* * *

The darkness is not helping him keep his footing any as he stumbles down the alleyway. There are not very many streetlights in the area, and the ones that there are do not quite reach between the buildings where he is currently trying to move at a decent pace. Only the barest illumination finds its way onto his path - although he supposes he should be grateful for what there is.

There is still the raw taste of panic in the back of his throat, brought on by whatever dark force was trying to get into the warehouse back there… He had somehow managed to slip through a back door and had not looked back once he had. Adrenaline had lent speed to his stumbling feet for the first few moments - or maybe longer; he isn't exactly sure - but now he is starting to tire. The pain is coursing through his body, and nearly everything within him is begging for him to just find a place to sit down and rest. There is just one little part, a survival instinct, that is pushing him to continue on. And so, spurred by the fear of whatever had been clanging around at the warehouse, he continues onward until he physically cannot make it another step.

He looks around and squints to make out his surroundings. There is not much, just a few discarded odds and ends lying against the walls on either side of him. He's taken several turns down the maze of alleys in this neighborhood, and it feels as if he is miles from where he first started. Although if he had to guess, he probably had not managed to make it very far on his stumbling feet.

His legs are trembling, and he can feel cold sweat trickling down his face. Some of it drips into his eyes, stinging with its saltiness. He lifts a hand to wipe it away and notices how much his fingers are shaking. It's still very dark, so he feels more than sees his vision starting to cloud.

The sound of pounding feet echoes down the alley towards him, along with muffled shouts. When he jerks his head around to look, things tilt crazily, but he still manages to see bright beams of light that are bouncing around at the end of the alley. He manages to get to the closest wall without completely losing his balance. There is a dumpster there, and he slides down to a sitting position behind it, putting the large metal object between himself and whoever is coming. He still has the small urge to flee, but he knows he cannot make it much farther on his own. There is also this small part of him that is arguing that he is fine. The only people out looking for him are not there to hurt him. In fact, he realizes belatedly, they may have been the ones at the warehouse. A laugh escapes him as he considers the whole situation.

Then a chill wracks his body and he pulls his legs in tighter and wraps his arms around them. He blinks hard, trying to stay awake at least until the others get there, and he almost succeeds.

He can just hear what sounds like Gus yelling his name, just see the flashlight beam as it rounds the corner of the dumpster - and then he can definitely see it as it hits his face full-on.

"Watch where you're pointing that thing," he mumbles with a grin as he slips off into the welcoming, painless arms of darkness.

He knows he'll be fine now.

* * *

_The End._


End file.
